had called, but he knew he should see her at meeting. It was she who
was responsible for the daydreaming way in which he was going about this
morning, and for a good deal of previous daydreaming and night dreaming,
too, in the last few days. The analogy of the tender passion to
the chills and fever, had been borne out in his case by the usual
alternations of complacency and depression. He told himself, that since
he remembered so well his boyish courtship of her, she, too, doubtless
remembered it. A woman was even more likely than a man to remember such
things. Doubtless, she remembered too, that kiss she had given him.
Her coming to him to ask his protection for her aunt, if she remembered
those passages had some significance. She must have known that he
would also remember them, and surely that would have deterred her from
reopening their acquaintance had she found the reminiscences in question
disagreeable. He assured himself that had it been wholly unpleasant for
her to meet him, she would have been shrewd enough to devise some other
way of securing the purpose of her visit. She had remained unmarried
all the time of his absence, although she must have had suitors.
Perhaps--well if this conjecture sounded a little conceited, be sure it
was alternated with others self-depreciatory enough to balance it. But I
have no space or need to describe the familiar process of architecture,
by which with a perhaps for a keystone, possibilities for pillars,
and dreams for pinnacles, lovers are wont to rear in a few idle hours,
palaces outdazzling Aladdin's. I shall more profitably give a word
or two of explanation to another point. Those familiar with the
aristocratic constitution of New England society at this period, will
perhaps deem it strange that the social gulf between the poor farmer's
son, like Perez, and the daughter of one of the most distinguished
families in Berkshire, should not have sufficed to deter the young man
from indulging aspirations in that direction.
Perhaps, if he had grown up at home, such might have been the case,
despite his boyish fondness for the girl. But the army of the revolution
had been for its officers and more intelligent element, a famous school
of democratic ideas. Perez was only one of thousands, who came home
deeply imbued with principles of social equality; principles, which,
despite finely phrased manifestoes and declarations of independence,
were destined to work like a slow leaven for generations yet, ere
they transformed the oligarchical system of colonial society, into
the democracy of our day. It is true that, Paul Hubbard, Abner, Peleg,
Meshech, and the rest, had been like Perez in the army, and yet the
democratic impressions they had there received, now that they had
returned home, served only to exasperate them against the pretensions of
the superior class, without availing to eradicate their inbred instincts
of servility in the presence of the very men they hated. Precisely this
self-contemptuous recognition of his own servile feeling, operating on
a morose temper, was the key to Hubbard's special bitterness toward the
silk stockings. That Perez had none of this peasant's instinct, must,
after all, be partly ascribed to the fact that his descent, by his
mother's side, had been a gentleman's, and as Reuben had taken after
Elnathan, so Perez was his mother's boy. He felt himself a gentleman,
although a farmer's son. The air of dainty remoteness and distinction,
which invested Desire in his imagination, was by virtue of her
womanhood, solely, not as the representative of a higher class. He was
penniless, she was rich, but to that sufficiently discouraging obstacle,
no paralyzing sense of caste inferiority was added, in his mind.
Despite the dilatory and absent-minded procedure of the young man, by
the time Prudence came out to call him in to the breakfast of fried pork
and johnny-cake, the chores were done, and afterwards he had only to
concern himself with his toilet. He stood a long time gazing ruefully
at his coat, so sadly threadbare and white in the seams. It was his only
one, and very old, but Prudence thought, when with a sigh he finally
drew it on, that she had never seen so fine a soldier, and, indeed, the
coat did look much better on than off, for a gallant bearing will, to
some extent, redeem the most dilapidated attire.
Reuben had grown stronger from day to day, and though still weak, it was
thought that he could well enough take care of George Fennell, during
the forenoon, and allow the rest of the family to go to meeting. Perez
had tinkered up the old cart, and contrived a harness out of ropes, by
which his own horse could be attached to it, the farm horse having been
long since sold off, and Mrs. Hamlin, who by reason of infirmities, had
long been debarred from the privileges of the sanctuary, expected to be
able by this means, to be present there this morning, to offer up
devout thanksgiving for the mercy which had so wonderfully, in one week,
restored her two sons to her.
It was half-past nine when the air was filled with a deep musical,
melancholy sound, which appeared to come from the hill north of the
village, where the meeting-house stood. It lasted, perhaps, five
seconds, beginning with a long crescendo, and quivering into silence by
an equally prolonged diminuendo. It was certainly an astonishing sound
but none of the family appeared in the least agitated, Elnathan merely
remarking:
“Thar's the warnin blow, Perez, I guess ye better be thinkin baout
hitchin up.” It were a pity indeed if the people of Stockbridge had
not by that time become familiar with the sound of the old Indian
conch-shell which since the mission church was founded at the first
settlement of the town had served instead of a meeting-house bell.
It may be well believed that strong lungs were the first requisite in
sextons of that day. When an hour later the same dreary wail filled the
valley once more with its weird echoes, the family was on its way to
meeting, Mrs. Hamlin and Elnathan in the cart, and Perez with Prudence
on foot. The congregation was now rapidly arriving from every direction,
and the road was full of people. There were men on horseback with their
wives sitting on a pillion behind, and clasping the conjugal waistband
for security, families in carts, and families trudging afoot, while here
and there the more pretentious members of the congregation were seen in
chaises.
The new meeting-house on the hill had been built during Perez' absence,
to supersede the old church on the green, with which his childish
associations were connected. It had been erected directly after the
close of the war and the effort in addition to the heavy taxation then
necessary for public purposes, was such a drain on the resources of the
town, as to have been a serious local aggravation of the distress of the
times. According to the rule in church building religiously adhered to
by the early New Englanders, the bleakest spot within the town limits
had been selected for the meetinghouse. It was a white barn-shaped
structure, fifty feet by sixty, with a steeple, the pride of the whole
countryside, sixty-two feet high, and tipped with a brass rooster
brought from Boston, by way of weather vane.
Perez and Prudence separating at the door went to the several places
which Puritan decorum assigned to those of the spinster and bachelor
condition respectively, the former going into the right hand gallery,
the other into the left, exceptions being however made in behalf of the
owners of the square pews, who enjoyed the privilege of having their
families with them in the house of God. Across the middle of the end
gallery Dr. Partridge's square pew extended, so that by no means might
the occupants of the two side galleries come within whispering distance
of each other.
Obadiah Weeks, Abe Konkapot and Abner, who was a a widower and classed
himself with bachelors, and a large number of other younger men whom
Perez recognized as belonging to the mob under his leadership on
Tuesday, were already in their seats. Fidgeting in unfamiliar boots
and shoes, and meek with plentifully greased and flatly plastered hair,
there was very little in the subdued aspect of these young men to remind
any one of the truculent rebels who a few days before had shaken their
bludgeons in the faces of the Honorable the Justices of the Common
Pleas. As Perez entered the seat with them, they recognized him with
sheepish grins, as much as to say, “We're all in the same box,” quite as
the occupants of a prisoner's dock might receive a fellow victim thrust
in with them by the sheriff. Obadiah reached out his clenched first with
something in it, and Perez putting forth his hand, received therein a
lot of dried caraway seeds. “Thort mebbe ye hadn't got no meetin seed,”
whispered Obadiah.
Owing to the fact that nine years absence from home had weaned him
somewhat from native customs, Perez had, in fact, forgotten to lay in a
supply of this inestimable simple, to the universal use of which by our
forefathers during religious service, may probably be ascribed their
endurance of Sabbatical and doctrinal rigors to which their descendants
are confessedly unequal. It is well known that their knowledge of the
medicinal uses of common herbs was far greater than ours, and it was
doubtless the discovery of some secret virtue, some occult theological
reaction, if I may so express myself, in the seeds of the humble
caraway, which led to the undeviating rule of furnishing all the members
of every family, from children to grey heads, with a small quantity to
be chewed in the mouth and mingled with the saliva during attendance
on the stated ordinances of the Gospel. Whatever may be thought of this
theory, the fact will not be called in question that in the main, the
relaxation of religious doctrine and Sabbath observance in New England,
has proceeded side by side with the decline in the use of meetin seed.
In putting all the young men together in one gallery, it may be thought
that some risk was incurred of making that a quarter of disturbance. But
if the tithingman, with his argus-eyes and long rod were not enough
to insure propriety, the charming rows of maidens on the seats of the
gallery directly opposite could have been relied on to complete the
work. The galleries were very deep, and the distance across the meeting
house, from the front seat of one to that of the other, was not over
twenty-five feet. At this close range, reckoning girls' eyes to have
been about as effective then as they are now-a-days, it may be readily
inferred what havoc must have been wrought on the bachelors' seats in
the course of a two hour service. After being exposed to such a fire all
day, it was no wonder at all, quite apart from other reasons, that on
Sunday night the young men found their ardor inflamed to a pitch at
which an interview with the buxom enslaver became a necessity.
The singers sat in the front seat of the galleries, the bass singers in
the front seat on the bachelors' side, the treble in the front seat on
the spinsters' side, and the alto and tenor singers in the wings of
the end gallery, separated by Dr. Partridge's pew. For, as in most New
England churches at this date, the “old way,” of purely congregational
singing by “lining out,” had given place to select choirs, an innovation
however, over which the elder part of the people still groaned and
croaked. On the back seats of the end gallery, behind the tenors and
altos respectively sat the negro freedmen and freedwomen, the Pomps and
Cudjos, the Dinahs and Blossoms. Sitting by Prudence, among the treble
singers, Perez noticed a young Indian girl of very uncommon beauty,
and refinement of features, her dark olive complexion furnishing a most
perfect foil to the blooming face of the white girl.
“Who's that girl by Prudence Fennell?” he whispered to Abe Konkapot,
who sat beside him. The young Indian's bronze face flushed darkly, as he
replied:
“That's Lucretia Nimham.”
Perez was about to make further inquiries, when it flashed on him that
this was the girl, whom Obadiah had jokingly alluded to as the reason
why Abe had lingered in Stockbridge, instead of moving out to York State
with his tribe. She certainly was a very sufficient reason for a man's
doing or not doing almost anything.
From his position in the gallery, Perez could look down on the main body
of the congregation below, and his cheek flushed with anger as he saw
his father and mother occupying one of the seats in the back part of
the room, in the locality considered least in honor, according to the
distinctions followed by the parish committee, in periodically reseating
the congregation, or “dignifying the seats,” as the people called it.
Considerably nearer the pulpit, and in seats of correspondingly greater
dignity, he recognized Israel Goodrich and Ezra Phelps, the two men
of chiefest estate among the insurgents. Directly under and before the
pulpit, almost beneath it, in fact, facing the people from behind a sort
of railing, sat Deacon Nash. His brother deacon, no less an one than
Squire Timothy Edwards, has not yet arrived.
As he looked over the fast filling house, for he and Prudence had
arrived rather early, he met many eyes fixed curiously upon him.
Sometimes a whisper would pass along a seat, from person to person, till
one after another, the entire row had turned and stared intently at him.
It was fame.
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER MEETING
There had been considerable discussion during the week as to whether
Squire Woodbridge, in view of the public humiliation which had been put
upon him, would expose himself to the curious gaze of the community by
coming to meeting the present Sunday. It had been the more prevalent
opinion that he would find in the low condition of Mrs. Woodbridge, who
was hovering between life and death, a reason which would serve as an
excuse for not “attending on the stated ordinances of the gospel,”
the present Sabbath. But now from those whose position enabled them to
command a view of the front door of the meeting-house, rose a sibilant
whisper, distinct above the noise of boots and shoes upon the uncarpeted
aisles:
“Here he comes! Here comes Squire.”
There were several gentlemen in Stockbridge who, by virtue of a liberal
profession or present or past official dignities, had a claim, always
rigorously enforced and scrupulously conceded, to the title of Esquire,
but when “_The_ Squire,” was spoken of, it was always Jahleel Woodbridge
whom the speaker had in mind. Decidedly, those who thought he would not
dare to appear in public had mistaken his temper. His face, always that
of a full-blooded man, was redder than common, in fact, contrasted with
the white powder of his wig, it seemed almost purple, but that was the
only sign he gave that he was conscious of the people's looks. He wore a
long-skirted, straight-cut coat of fine blue cloth with brass buttons; a
brown waistcoat, and small clothes, satin hose with ruffled white shirt
and cuffs. Under one arm he carried his three-cornered hat and under
the other his gold-headed cane, and walked with his usual firm, heavy,
full-bodied step; the step of a man who is not afraid of making a noise,
and expects that people will look at him. There was not the slightest
deflection from the old-time arrogance in the stiff carriage of the head
and eyes, nor anything whatever to show that he considered himself one
jot or tittle less the autocrat of Stockbridge, than on the Sunday a
week ago. Walking the whole length of the meeting-house, he opened the
door of the big square pew at the right hand of the pulpit, considered
the first in honor, and the only part of the interior of the
meeting-house, save the pulpit and sounding-board, which was painted.
One by one the numerous children who called him father, passed before
him into the pew. Then he closed the door and sat down facing the
congregation, and slowly and deliberately looked at the people. As his
glance traveled steadily along the lines of seats, the starers left off
staring and looked down abashed. After he had thus reviewed the seats
below, he turned his eyes upward and proceeded to scan the galleries
with the same effect.
So strong was the impression made by this unruffled and authoritative
demeanor, that the people were fain to scratch their heads and look
at one another in vacant questioning, as if doubtful if they had not
dreamed all this, about the great man's being put down by Perez Hamlin,
insulted by the mob, and reduced even now to such powerlessness that
he owed the protection of his sick wife to the favor of the threadbare
Continental captain up there in the gallery. To those conscious of
having had a part in these doings, there was a disagreeably vivid
suggestion of the stocks and whipping post in the Squire's haughty
stare, against which even a sense of their numbers failed to reassure
them. Of course the revolt had gained far too great headway to be now
suppressed by anybody's personal prestige, by the frowns and stares
of any number of Squire Woodbridges, but, nevertheless, the impression
which even after the events of the last week, he was still able to make
upon the people, by his mere manner, was striking testimony to their
inveterate habit of awe toward him, as the embodiment of secular
authority in their midst.
Perez had been too long absent from home, and differed too much in
habits of thought, to fully understand the sentiments of the peasants
round him for the Squire, and in truth his attention was diverted
from that gentleman ere he had time to fully observe the effect of his
entrance. For he had scarcely reached his pew, when Squire and Deacon
Timothy Edwards came up the aisle, followed by his family. Desire wore
a blue silk skirt and close-fitting bodice, with a white lace kerchief
tucked in about her shoulders, and the same blue plumed hat of soft
Leghorn straw, in which we have seen her before, the wide brim falling
lower on one side than the other, over her dark curls. As she swept up
the aisle between the rows of farmers and farmers' wives, the contrast
between their coarse, ill-fitting and sad-colored homespun, and her rich
and tasteful robes, was not more striking than the difference between
the delicate distinction of her features and their hard, rough faces,
weather-beaten and wrinkled with toil and exposure, or sallow and hollow
cheeked with care and trouble. She looked like one of a different order
of beings, and indeed, it is nothing more than truth to say that such
was exactly the opinion which Miss Desire herself entertained. The eyes
of admiration with which the girls leaning over the gallery followed her
up the aisle, were quite without a spark of jealousy, for they knew
that their rustic sweethearts would no more think of loving her than of
wasting their passion on the moon. She was meat for their betters, for
some great gentleman from New York or Boston, all in lace and ruffles,
some judge or senator, or, greater still, maybe some minister.
To tell the whole truth, however, the admiring attention which her own
sex accorded to Desire on Sundays, was rather owing to the ever varying
attractions of her toilet, than to her personal charms. If any of the
damsels of Stockbridge who went to bed without their supper Sunday
night, because they couldn't remember the text of the sermon, had
been allowed to substitute an account of Desire Edwards' toilet, it is
certain they would not have missed an item. It was the chief boast of
Mercy Scott, the Stockbridge seamstress, that Desire trusted her new
gowns to her instead of sending to New York for them. From the glow
of pride and importance on Miss Mercy's rather dried-up features, when
Desire wore a new gown for the first time to church, it was perfectly
evident that she looked upon herself as the contributor of the central
feature of the day's services. At the quilting and apple paring bees
held about the time of such a new gown, Miss Mercy was the center of
interest, and no other gossip was started till she had completed her
confidences as to the material, cost, cut and fit of the foreshadowed
garment. It was with glistening eyes and fingers that forgot their
needles, that these wives and daughters of poor hard-working farmers,
drank in the details about rich eastern silks and fabrics of gorgeous
tints and airy textures, their own coarse, butternut homespun quite
forgotten in imagined splendors. In their rapt attention there was no
tinge of envy, for such things were too far above their reach to be
once thought of in connection with themselves. It was upon the fit of
Desire's dresses, however, that Miss Mercy, with the instinct of the
artist, grew most impassioned.
“'Tain't no credit to me a fittin her,” she would sometimes protest.
“Thar's some figgers you can't fetch cloth tew, nohow. But, deary me,
lands sakes alive, the cloth seems tew love her, it clings to her so
nateral. An tain't no wonder ef it doos. I never see sech a figger.
Why her----.” But Miss Mercy's audiences at such times were exclusively
composed of ladies. She had no inflamable masculine imaginations to
consider.
It was a very noticeable circumstance on the present Sunday, that all
the persons in the meeting-house who looked at Desire as she walked up
the aisle, proceeded immediately afterwards to screw around their necks
and stare at Perez, thereby betraying that the sight of the one had
immediately suggested the other to their minds.
The Edwards seat was the second in dignity in the meeting-house,
being the one on the left of the pulpit, and ranking with that of the
Sedgwicks, although as between the several leading pews the distinction
was not considered so decided as to be odious. Having ushered his family
to their place, Squire Edwards took his own official seat as deacon,
beside Deacon Nash, behind the railing, below the pulpit and facing the
people.
And now Parson West comes up the aisle in flowing gown and bands, his
three-cornered hat under his arm, and climbs the steps into the lofty
pulpit, sets the hour glass up in view, and the service begins. There
is singing, a short prayer, and again singing, and then the entire
congregation rises, the seats are fastened up that none may sit, and the
long prayer begins, and goes on and on for nearly an hour. Then there is
another psalm, and then the sermon begins. Up at Pittsfield to-day,
you may be very sure that Parson Allen is giving his people a rousing
discourse on the times, wherein the sin of rebellion is treated without
gloves, and the duty of citizens to submit to the powers that be, and to
maintain lawful authority even to the shedding of blood, are vigorously
set forth. But Parson West is not a political parson, and there is not a
word in his sermon which his hearers, watchful for anything of the kind,
can construe into a reference to the existing events of the past week.
It is his practice to keep several sermons on hand, and this might just
as well have been prepared a thousand years before. It was upon the
subject of the deplorable consequences of neglecting the baptism of
infants.
If a parent truly gave up a child in baptism, it would be accepted and
saved, whether it died in infancy or lived to pass through the mental
exercises of an adult convert. But on the other hand, if that duty was
purposely neglected, or if baptism was unaccompanied by a proper frame
of mind in the parent, there was no reason or hint from revelation to
believe that the child was saved. Considering that the infant was justly
liable to eternal suffering on account of Adam's sin, it was impossible
for the human mind to see how God could be just and yet the justifier
of an unbaptized infant. But it was not for the human mind to limit
infinite mercy and wisdom, and possibly in His secret councils God had
devised a way of salvation even for so desperate a case. So that while
hope was not absolutely forbidden to parents who had neglected
the baptism of their infants, confidence would be most wicked and
presumptuous.
Deacon Edwards fidgeted on his seat at the laxity of this doctrine as
well might the son of Jonathan Edwards, and Deacon Nash, who inherited
his Calvinism from a father who had moved from Westfield to Stockbridge
for the express purpose of sitting under that renowned divine, seemed
equally uncomfortable. Parson West, as a young man, had been notoriously
affected with Arminian leanings, and although his conversion to
Calvinism by Dr. Hopkins of Great Barrington, had been deemed a
wonderful work of grace, a tendency to sacrifice the logical development
of doctrines to the weak suggestions of the flesh, was constantly
cropping out in his sermons, to the frequent grief and scandal of the
deacons.